As time goes by
by HoganTime
Summary: What happened to our heroes after the war? This story tries to answer this question. Please R & R
1. 16th September 1950

**16th September 1950.**

Colonel Robert E. Hogan crossed out another day on his calendar. It had become a habit since he had returned from Stalag 13 to count all the days which had passed since then. In the beginning, it had been with a smile, a count of his days in freedom, days without fear, but much too soon this had changed.

Of course he could have done other things, of course he could have stayed in the military, he could have...

There were so many things which he could have, but had not done. He had wanted to go back as fast as possible, go home after all those years. But when he came home, it was not the home he had wanted to go back to. In his dreams, his home had been like it was before the war, a place of warmth and friendliness, a place to be the child he had been.

Still, he could not erase the image of his mothers tear filled eyes, when he opened the front door. She had never believed that he would make it home, she had hoped, prayed but the horror stories about what happened in POW camps had made her lose hope. He could see how the fear of finding a letter with the words: we regret to inform you, had changed his mother. Still, she was happy, so happy to have him back and they had hugged each other for a long, long time.

Then, he had believed that everything would return to normal and had stepped into the living room, expecting to find his brothers, but none of them were there. Questioningly, he turned towards his mother, who embraced him and cried onto his shoulder.

It was only then, that the reality crashed down upon him. No one would return home this dqay, no one would come home apart from him.

_D- day, they were there. Death-day._

In the months that followed, he saw his mother fall apart. There were no other words to describe this. The loss of both her husband and two of her sons had been to much. In her last months she needed constant care and Hogan stayed with her, even when she did not recognise him any more. She died in 1947, another victim of the war.

From then on, Hogan was alone. In the beginning, he had kept in touch with his men from Stalag 13, but over the years, the contact had ceased. All of them now had their own lives, everyone lived on, continued where they had stopped before the war.

The last time he had seen them had been in 1947, when Allied High Command finally decided to declassify their operation. It had also been the last time, that his mother recognised him and whispered „I´m so proud of you, Rob.".

Heroes, that´s what they had said. They had been the heroes of the war, Hogan´s Heroes. He shook his head in disgust. Never had he wanted to be a hero, he had only done, what seemed necessary at that time and the more he heard the word hero, the more he thought about those he had not saved, those German soldiers who had died because of him and those people in his crew for whom he had had the responsibility, when they set out for that mission over Hamburg.

After the celebrations, for which he had only been grateful, because he could see his men again, he had retired from the military and tried to find a normal job, become a normal person. Now every morning, he saw the tribute he had paid to the war in his dull eyes and the streaks of grey in his hair. His handsome face was lined with the doubts he felt every moment, his mischievous twinkling eyes no longer happy.

Hogan dropped the pen on the nearby table and turned to the book he was reading. War and Peace. A bitter grin hushed over his face.

_And you thought that the war hadn´t touched you. I guess now you know better. What has become of you?_

He glanced around the room. It was a mess, nobody would doubt that. Clothes were scattered all over the room, books were lying on the ground and yesterday´s evening meal stood untouched on the table.

Why bother to make food when you don´t eat it anyway?

His gaze travelled towards the only items in this room, about which he cared. The photographs of his parents, his brothers and the picture taken by the liberating forces in Stalag 13.

He picked up the last picture and looked for the hundredth time in this week at the faces of the men, with whom he had spent three years of his life in a prison camp.

_If someone had told you before the war, that you would long for the time you spent there once you returned home, you would´ve thought that he was nuts._

He looked again at the photograph. This time at himself. A handsome, dark-haired man grinned mischievously at him.

_When did you cease to be him?_

Glancing at the other pictures in front of him, he realised. That moment in his mothers living room, was where his life had fallen apart. Or had it been even earlier? The moment, he embraced Carter, when they said goodbye in June 1945?

Carter, young Carter, so untouched by the war. That´s what they had been fighting for, to let the Carters in the world trust again.

* * *

BOOOOM!

A loud crash echoed through the little village, when the little hut in the garden of one of the houses blew up.

Grinning, the owner of the house looked at the ravage in front of him. He could have known, that this would happen, all his experiments ended this way.

Andrew Carter was still grinning, when he entered the kitchen and washed the dirt of his hands. When the bell rang, he wiped his hands dry and rushed towards the door.

There stood an old woman and Carter grinned at her. This woman, miss Pineapple was part of this everyday routine. Everyday, Carter used to blow up something and she would come and ask him what the noise was about. He would invite her to have a cup of tea and they would talk for hours, about Carters experiments.

Miss Pineapples husband had been a chemist as well. He had died in 1948, when he not only blew up his laboratory, but himself with it. Since then, Carter had taken the task upon him to care for the old woman.

When she left Carter returned to the remains of his garden shed and began to rebuild it roughly. It did not matter that it didn´t look pretty, it would be blown up tomorrow anyway.

With an impish grin on his face, he carried his chemicals into the cellar. Tomorrow would be another day, another day of loud explosions.

He needed those explosions, not only because he liked messing around with chemicals, but also because they reminded him of Stalag 13, of his friends, about whom he still cared deeply.

* * *

"And the coin is gone!". Newkirk bowed towards the cheering crowd. After his magic act, he left the building quickly and dropped into his favourite pub.

"Hi Pete!". Newkirk turned his head and grinned. "Hi Alf!".

Alfie the artist was sipping his beer in the dark corner of the pub and Newkirk joined him. "How´s business goin?".

"If I didn´t know better, I´d say it was magic! Never ´ad more people in the audience.". Newkirk grinned.

"Magic fingers still in business?".

Newkirk shook his head. "No need for it. Jus´ magic tricks nothin´else.".

Alfie drowned his glass in one sip. "Seems the war´s been kind to you.".

Absent-mindedly, Newkirk looked into his own glass, thinking of Stalag 13. "You could say so.".

"War hero, hm?".

Newkirk shook his head. "No Alf, no hero, jus´ol´ Newkirk, who had a once over.".

Alfie nodded with a slight smile. "I knew you´d become somethin´ big, my boy, I always knew.".

Newkirk flushed. "What´s so big about havin´ been locked up in a bloody POW camp for three years?".

Alfie waved a warning finger in front of Newkirk. "You know as well as I do, that you´ve done more in that camp of yours than bein´ a POW. Remember, I was there once!".

Newkirk shook his head. "I had a great time, but I don´t want to think about it any more, it´s over.".

Alfie placed his hand upon his shoulder. "No, boy, it´s not over yet, you miss them, I can see.".

* * *

"Bonjour cherie!". Louis LeBeau stepped into his house and greeted the big dog that jumped onto his shoulders.

Heidi, the German guard dog had remained with him, as a living reminder of Stalag 13.

LeBeau looked out of the window, over Paris, the city of light. Beautiful she was, although the war was still visible. Streets were missing, some houses not yet rebuilt, but time would rebuild the city, time would mend every wound.

While he changed into his night clothes, Heidi walked around him, impatiently. "Oui cherie, I will get your food any moment, patience!".

After bringing Heidi her food, LeBeau dropped onto his bed. Today had been a long and tiring day, just as every day was. He had opened his own restaurant, shortly after the war and worked from morning until night, cooking, serving meals and after closing hour, cleaning up his place.

He had not had enough money to hire personnel. His only help was Hilda, the Klinks former secretary. After the war, she had volunteered to help him to realise his dreams.

The restaurant gave LeBeau much satisfaction. It kept him busy during the day and he could easily make his living from it. Still, it was not the ultimate gourmet restaurant of which he had dreamed, but maybe with time it would come.

Being one of Papa Bears men had proven a very good advert for his restaurant, which now carried the name "Papa Bear´s Den".

LeBeau smiled as he thought about the special dish, which he had invented soon after the opening of the restaurant. It was called "Menu Stalag 13" and consisted of the various dishes which leBeau had cooked in all the years in Stalag 13. It had proven to be an absolute hit, but nobody actually believed that this was what they had eaten in a POW camp.

Heidi jumped next to him and put her head onto his chest. He put an arm around her. Soon, he fell asleep, the dog curled tightly against him. He smiled in his sleep when Heidi turned into a beautiful woman and told him, that there was nothing she wanted in the world but him.

* * *

In New York, Kinch embraced his wife Beth when he came home from work. He also had retired from the army for various reasons. Firstly, he wanted to spend more time together with his wife and kids. But this was not the only reason. He had been the only one of Papa Bears group who stayed in the army after the war, but in 1946, when the myth of Papa Bears operation was still classified, segregation had put an end to his military career.

He could not stand the humiliations any longer. Before the war he had endured them, sometimes even believed that he deserved to be treated like this, but now he could take no more. Papa Bears operation had showed him, that he was worth a lot, that there were people who did not care about the colour of skin.

Kinch had wished that after World War II, when people would see to what evil segregation can lead, the world would stop making a difference between him and someone else, just because of the colour of his skin. His hopes were shattered soon after he came home and he sometimes wondered if he would ever meet someone, besides his wife and kids who could see him just as James Kinchloe and not as either "negro" or "war hero".

The war had taught him that it was not right to stick labels onto someone, just according to someone´s outer appearance. He himself had made the mistake with Carter. He had thought that Carter was nothing more than a blundering boy. A boy, who was too young to understand the real evil of war. Later, Kinchs opinion was prove untrue, when the talented demolitions expert proved his usefulness for their operation and above all an invaluable friend.

Kinch smiled at the thought of Stalag 13. It had been a good time, but life continued. He looked up when a seven year old boy peered into the room, with twinkling eyes. It was his son Robert, who was immediately followed by his younger brother Andy.

"Hi dad!", "Hi dad!". Both boys looked innocently at him. Their faces blank. Kinch knew this look.

"You want me to play football with you again?".

Two broad grins confirmed his suspicion and he looked at his wife. Beth nodded, with a smile and Kinch followed his two sons outside.

Beth looked at his broad shoulders, when he disappeared. He deserved a lot better, she knew. She knew that he was exceptional, but when would the world know, that for being exceptional you could just be James Kinchloe instead of Hogans Heroes.


	2. 17th September 1950

_No Peace Palace glorifies_

_Peace better than the human brain:_

_even while burned by hate and lies_

_its ruins can dream of Paradise._

_Its turn will come and it shall rise_

_and learn of love again_

_**Leo Vroman**_

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Robert Hogan surveyed his messy living room and sighed deeply. Again he had failed, failed, failed. The terrible word echoed in his head. The tear filled eyes of the women would not disappear from the front of his eyes. Why? Why? Why?

Today´s events had thrown over the barricades he had built so carefully over the years. The barricades he needed to be a normal person, if only on the outside.

A young boy, barely fifteen, a car accident. While he was walking on the pavement, he had seen a boy on a bicycle, who did not look and crossed the street. The car could not brake. As if in slow motion, the car made contact with the bicycle. The boys eyes widened in shock as he was thrown of his bicycle. His body curved and fell onto the street. Hogan watched, in horror, unable to do anything.

Then, the world had moved again. He had run toward the boy, ready to try whatever first aid he knew. He had been too late. The boy had looked, sighed and the lights in his eyes went out. The rest had been like a film, the attempts to reanimate him, the ambulance and yet nothing mattered.

There, in his dark living room, Hogans broad shoulders shook under the load of grief he had never allowed to get to him. Now in the dim darkness, where nobody could see him, he could grieve, not only for the boy in the accident, but for all the boys, who by accident got into a war and never returned home.

He reached for the table and ran his hand lightly over the dust, which covered the cap he was holding in his hands. It was his crush cap, which he had worn for almost three years, back there in Germany. When he held it close to his head he could almost smell the dusty Barracks and hear the shouting of his men, out in the camp yard.

Only in his dreams could he go back now, back to that period of adventure, where his life and that of his men had been on the line on a daily basis. Why would he be longing for that time? Yet he knew he was. Life had been dull and filled with grief since that day in June 1945 when their ways had parted.

Maybe it was better this way, maybe it was better for everyone of them to live on, to try and forget, but Hogan knew, that for him this would never be true. In all those years, he had had something to fight for, now everything he cared about was gone, his parents, his brothers. He sank onto the sofa and suddenly, his life seemed to be so senseless. Why was there a need to live?

He had fought these depressions ever since, tried to find something good in life, tried to live again. Yet he was faced with the dilemma, that many faced when they returned from war. When the war has guided your path for so long, normal life is difficult to retain and for the first time in his life, Robert Hogan felt not strong enough to deal with it.

If his men could have seen him, they would have been shocked, certainly. He knew, that for them, he was still superman, Superhogan, who saved them, who put his life in front of theirs. For them and especially for Carter he was the superhero they had all dreamed of. And yet, he could not even save his own hopes and dreams, from the demons of the past.

Again, he looked into the mirror, at the lined face, the grey streaks in his hair. Fourty-three and yet an old man. Behind the grim mask of bitterness and grief, his handsome, youthful face was hidden, hidden behind the worries and pleasures of the past.

He looked at the picture of him and his men, no his friends and knew. There was only one way to re find his will to live, it was to re find his friends.

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BOOOOOOOM!

Yet another day, yet another explosions and for the utmost time, Andrew Carter was watching his garden shed explode.

Monotonous it might seem to be to some people, but for him, every explosion was different, every BOOOM a different sound. He studied explosions and named his science explosology. That nobody recognised this as science did not bother him much. He did not need fame, he did not need to work in famous laboratories. Happy enough he was, with the world around him.

He lived from what the woods surrounding the little village provided him with, together with the vegetables out of his own garden. Never did he need more. He had gotten used to this life in the years preceding the war, when he lived with his relatives near Bullfrog. His father had taught him how to hunt and his uncle had taught him the art of gardening a vegetable garden. Water he obtained from a small river, flowing right beside his house. His house, bought, with the heritage he had gotten when his parents died in spring 1948.

Although he had seen the terrible truth of war, had felt the grieve upon losing family members to and after the war, Carters compassionate, innocent nature had not changed. Sometimes people wondered, how he could have remained like this, while stationed in the heart of the evil Germany presented at that time.

With a laugh and a smile, he lived on. But some days, he wished that his friends would come and walk into his house. When he heard footsteps outside, his heart raced with delight, but they never came. Still, optimistic Carter did not lose hope. They would come, someday, or he would go and seek them when it was his destiny.

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Newkirks life had never been one of hopes and dreams and this did not change, even now. Reality was everything left for him and he was happy with it as he stroke the hair of his third girlfriend in two months.

"Sarah, you know I never met a girl like you before?".

The girl laughed at him. "Peter, we´re to old for this, don´t you think? It´s not like you never said this before. Saying you love me would suffice.".

Peter grinned. "Okay Sarah, I love you.".

He cradled Sarah in his arms. Her smell reminded him of spring, of calm days in the sun. Maybe there were some dreams left in him, he decided.

"How would you like a house, with a white, wooden fence, a rose garden and a few children?". Peter whispered in her ear.

She pulled his nose, playfully. "I like geraniums better.".

Shocked, Peter jumped up. "Geraniums?".

She grinned mischievously. "I love them, just like my father.".

Peters eyes grew wide. "Father?".

She jumped on him and pulled the blanket over the two of them. "Edward Rodney Crittendon.".

Peter raised his eyebrow. "Crittendon? You know a Rodney Crittendon by any chance?".

"My brother.". She chuckled as she saw Peters expression.

When he looked back at her, his face softened. "If he wants to be our best man, I don´t care.". He nibbled her ear and stroke her back.

As she kissed him, he asked himself whether Rodney might not be so bad as he had seemed.

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"Mon Dieu, Schultzie!". LeBeau smiled broadly as a man entered his restaurant, a man about as wide as he was tall.

"Cockroach!", Schultz called out their familiar greeting. "Is there any Strudel left?".

"Always, Schultzie, always.". LeBeau shoved a giant platter in front of the ex-sergeant.

Schultz was in Paris to search for another location to open a second company. After the war, his toy company had been rebuilt and now, business was flourishing, something which became apparent in the giant jacket, Schultz hung over the chair. LeBeau could swear, that it consisted of at least three normal jackets, sown together.

"Delicious, delicious. LeBeau, ther is no one in this world, who makes better Strudel, no one.".

LeBeau smiled and served him another platter.

Suddenly, Heidi ran into the restaurant and jumped next to Schultz. The giant German was very surprised.

"Heidi!". He began stroking the dog gently. "LeBeau, I always knew, the dogs liked the prisoners more than the guards, but is all of this true?".

"What, Schultzie?".

"Papa Bear, the Underground. Colonel Hogan, he was really?".

LeBeau nodded. "Yes Schultz, le Colonel was Papa Bear.".

Schultz shook his head and stuffed another bite of Strudel into his mouth.

"Have you heard anything from them?".

LeBeau shook his head. "Not since the last letter from Carter, three months ago.".

"LeBeau, I think we should have a reunion, here in Paris, with Strudel and everything.".

LeBeau nodded absent-mindedly. Schultz had spoken out, what he had been thinking for months. Maybe it was time that someone else than Colonel Hogan took the initiative for a last, come together mission.

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Another days hard work had ended and James Kinchloe was sitting in the living room, reading the newspaper.

Nothing happened, nothing had happened, nothing would happen and some part of him was grateful for it.

Blindly, he picked up a book from the shelf behind him. _Crime and punishment_. He sighed. Everything reminded him of the war, but even more of his life after it.

_Isn´t segregation a crime? At least it should be._

A piece of paper dropped from the book into his lap. He picked it up and saw, that it was a letter. He did not know how the piece had come there, but as he opened it, he recalled the smell of his parents house, the warmth of their love, for they loved him for what he was. His father had sent this one to him, there in Stalag 13 and somehow it had passed through the censors undamaged. It was the last letter he ever got from them, before they died.

_Dear James,_

_we have written so many times, that we miss you and that we will wait for you, but now, with the war almost over, we wanted to send you this. It was written by a soldier like you, yet we don´t know his name. We know that you always loved literature and there in Germany, there won´t be so much available now. _

_**Can You Take It?**_

_It's easy to be nice, boys_

_When everything's O.K._

_It's easy to be cheerful,_

_When your having things your way._

_But can you hold your head up_

_And take it on the chin._

_When your heart is breaking_

_And you feel like giving in?_

_It was easy back in England,_

_Among the friends and folks._

_But now you miss the friendly hand,_

_The joys, and songs, and jokes._

_The road ahead is stormy._

_And unless you're strong in mind,_

_You'll find it isn't long before_

_You're dragging far behind._

_You've got to climb the hill, boys;_

_It's no use turning back._

_There's only one way home, boys,_

_And it's off the beaten track._

_Remember you're American,_

_And when you reach the crest,_

_You'll see a valley cool and green,_

_Our country at its best._

_You know there is a saying_

_That sunshine follows rain,_

_And sure enough you'll realize_

_That joy will follow pain._

_Let courage be your password,_

_Make fortitude your guide;_

_And then instead of grousing,_

_Just remember those who died._

_**Anonymous**_

_We love you, James. _

_Mum and Dad_

Kinch looked up, bit he did not see the present. He remembered his parents, his friends. He would not grouse, he would go and find his friends again. He turned to his wife.

"Beth, I-"

She nodded. "Yes, James, but we´ll go with you.".

He smiled and she embraced him and with him, his hopes and dreams.

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A/N

First, much thanks for the nice reviews!

The writer of the poem _Can you take it? _is not known. I found it on a website about World War II.

The fragment at the beginning is taken from the poem _The old peace palace _by Leo Vroman. It was taken from the book _Het andere heelal _by Leo Vroman.


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